Saved and SAINTified (50 page)

The beige, tan, caramel and black faces with tooth
y grins were no longer there. No black leather jackets with the sleeves cut off and the all-too familiar skull on the back with the bandana wrapped tightly around its forehead. That reality was a faded day in time; back then, you’d have to
try
to not run into a Savage Skull. Now, trying to find one, just
one
, was like a scavenger hunt in these parts—but Saint only needed one. The man he called his big brother, the guy that adopted him. He didn’t know if he was still breathing or not, but something told him that he was.

He kept walking, occasionally looking into storefronts along the way.
Children ran around, but it was almost dinner time so the street lights would soon be on and many of them would be called indoors. Saint peered at the setting sun, and then glanced over to his left, toward the street where he used to play stickball. He grinned to himself.

Hot damn! Hunts Point, the most fucked up area, I swear
... and I thought it was great. The pimps, the junkies, the prostitutes, all of it ... dismal beauty. It called to me. I didn’t know any better.

He
’d spent many nights in Hunts Point against his parents’ wishes, hanging close to the gang members. He followed them everywhere, especially Bomb, and they’d led him into some dangerous areas—but again, he was protected.

Saint
kept on walking. He wanted to go across town, so he took a small taxi ride then jumped right back out and began to tread the streets again. He’d walked miles, but he didn’t feel it. The gritty reminiscence had become addictive, and riding around in a car wouldn’t have done his need to feed on the nostalgia any justice. He’d miss too much, and draw unwanted attention to himself. Being on foot felt much more comfortable. He turned onto the familiar Charlotte Street. The cool air now felt invigorating and lightened his heart.

It moved through his bloodstream and kissed his soul with its fragrant wistfulness. A familiar scent caught his attention, making him stop dead in his tracks. Ever so f
aint in the air, it wafted past. Fried, gooey, glazed donuts and strong Columbian coffee took a hold of him and rained down on his sense of smell. Only one diminutive store in all of South Bronx had that same aroma—‘Cerritos’, but that store was long gone.

S
traight ahead was a sign saying, ‘Smitty’s’, on a plain white board. It swung in the wind in big, black, block letters. He entered the small dining area. The walls were sooty and the odor of cigarettes lingered in the air, giving evidence of laws being broken. It was practically empty. Six worn, red pleather bar stools lined up at the counter. A large illuminated menu gave illumination and a bit of warmth to the cold space. Several tables set up with sugar, salt and pepper were crammed against the thin walls. Gum covered mustard yellow chairs were inundated with ink pen scribbling and declarations of love for relationships that had long since expired.  A raspy voice came from the corner of the room, at the end of the counter.

“You raised ya damn prices again, Felipe! You said you wouldn’t.
¡Tu mentiroso bastardo!
You think money grows on trees? Ain’t nobody livin’ high on the hog right now.”

A skinny man in clothing two sizes too big for him
and a black beret on his head was hunched down, grasping a cup of coffee. His tan, thin fingers gripped the Styrofoam cup while his other hand shakily hung on to a lit cigarette. Saint was drawn to him. He couldn’t see his face, but he could feel his energy and it was all too familiar. Saint wanted it; he needed it. He couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. He drew closer until he was upon him. Taking a deep breath, he slid onto the chair next to the man.

A heavy-set Mexican fellow came out from the kitchen
, his dirty apron pulled tautly over his rounded belly. He planted his short, meaty palms on the counter and glared at Saint, before a faint smile creased his face.

“What can I get you?” he asked, his accent so thick, he was hard to understand.

Saint glanced up at the overhead menu. “Let me get one of those fried glazed donuts.” He looked over at the man next to him. “Let me get two. I want to give this cat over here one, as well.”

The man nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Saint tried not to stare. He knew the argument that could come from that, but he couldn’t help himself. The man didn’t acknowledge his generous gesture. He just stared down into nothingness, his face partially shrouded by his pulled down hat and the haze of cigarette smoke drifting around him like the ghost of ‘bad luck’.

T
he man reached into his pocket and pulled out an old cellphone. He flipped it open and quickly dialed someone. Soon, the man started to curse and hiss in Spanish, and before the call ended, he yelled, “
¡Que te jodan!” 

Nice way to end a call, telling someone to fuck off.
 

Then
, their eyes met. The man’s dark pupils, shrouded under long, almost poker straight lashes and blue black eyebrows against his pale skin, contrasted in an intriguing way. They held each other’s gaze. The man ran his tongue over his bottom lip, took another puff of his cigarette and continue the stare-a-thon.

“I know you
...” the man finally said with a slight laugh, pointing directly in Saint’s face. “I don’t know from where, but I know you. Where you from, man?”

“Right here. I was born here. Lived on
Charlotte, went over to East Tremont and kept jumping around. Moved to Brooklyn after a while, then moved to Queens and New York City.”

Felipe set the donuts down in front of
them, each wrapped in parchment paper, the glaze dripping off of them like melting candle wax. Just as Saint remembered.

Greasy and delicious...

As a child, he craved these donuts and would eat them every chance he got. One time he’d gotten sick after finding a dollar and buying three of them. Instead of sharing, he greedily wolfed them all down, and his seven-year-old body writhed in pain soon after. He wanted to ask Felipe if he had Smitty’s old recipes, but before he could, the robust man was back through the double doors.

“Yeah, so you been around 3
rd
avenue and such?” He took a drag from his cigarette.

Saint
nodded.

“It’s bugging the fuck outta me
. What is your name, man?” Saint could now see his face clearly as he’d removed his hat and placed it on the counter, exposing shoulder length, wavy jet black hair. It reminded Saint of the portraits of a Hispanic Jesus he’d seen exquisitely painted on brick walls as a child.

“I
’m Saint.”

The man grinned and took a sloppy bite out of his donut.

“I never forget a face!” he said around a mouthful of sweet dough, still looking straight ahead. “Never. You was ’round when this mothafucka was burnin’ the hell down.”

Saint
pinched a piece of the carb induced delicious nightmare and popped it into his mouth.

“Gimme a minute,” the man
said. “You’re older now, but you look the damn same. Same face, taller, filled out some ... hold up...”

Saint
didn’t interrupt him; he knew this man felt it was important to claim what Saint now already knew.

“
Mothafuckin’ baby Pharaoh!!! Little Pharaoh, I mean!” He snapped his fingers excitedly. “Shit! You half Gook, half Egyptian son of a bitch!” The man laughed boisterously, exposing a missing tooth. “I fucking loved you, man! My little brother...”

Saint didn’t miss the quick flash of sadness in his eyes and tone. He’d reached a pinnacle of excitement, then like a roller coaster, he fell to a low so fast, it was almost within a blink of an eye.

Saint grinned and took another bite out of his donut. “Yup, it’s me in the flesh.”

“Maaaaan! I was lookin’ for you
back then. I didn’t know y’all moved.” The slight tinge of sorrow now layered on his raspy tone. “One day you were here, next you were gone. You were on your way, man. A little more time, I was going to put you in.” The man lifted up his jacket sleeve, exposing a home-made tattoo on his wrist that read, ‘Born a Savage, Die a Skull.’

I know it. I would have been a
Savage Skull in a matter of months ... in the youth core division.

“I didn’t know we were moving, either. They made sure not to tell me
for fear I might run away. You have no idea how many times I thought about you over the years, Bomb.”

The man placed his donut down and looked at
Saint in a peculiar way. “You actually remember my name? You were just a little kid. Wow...” His words trailed off and his eyes glossed over, as though he’d gone deep in a tunnel of memories.

“Of course I remembered your name.”
Saint turned toward him. “I wasn’t supposed to be doing the shit I was doing. I was rebelling a bit, wanting to be bad, wanting to be important. You were just cool naturally. I wasn’t. I wanted to be like
you.
You took me in and watched over me before I got into some shit I couldn’t get out of. Thank you for that.”

Saint saw the change as Bomb suppressed any outward emotion. The shadow was there, but only for a brief moment before it was gone.

“Yeah,” was all he offered after a few seconds of silence. “At first we thought you was Maria’s kid ... you know, Maria on East 165
th
street.”

“Yeah, I vaguely remember her. I remember her son, Tony, though. We went to P.S. 154 together.”

“Yeah, Tony! He’s clean, doing well. Lives over in Harlem now. Anyway, you looked like her kids, and you were hangin’ around there so we just assumed, you know.” He shrugged. “She had so many fuckin’ kids, and we looked after ’em but then we saw your real mama one day. I think she was the only Asian in all of the South Bronx back then.” He chuckled. “We still didn’t know what the fuck you were for a while. Didn’t matter though...”

Saint
nodded, “She probably was the first Asian there. Before we moved, a couple more moved in.”

“She was fine as fuck
... no disrespect,” he said, taking another drag. “Your father was a mean mothafucka. I remember that guy. Tall Egyptian man with a deep ass voice—told us to stop hangin’ around his apartment and lettin’ you hang wit’ us. Said he’d call the cops. I cussed him out one time and he slammed my ass against the wall so hard I thought my chest was gonna cave, man. Scared the living shit out of me.”

Saint
grinned at the imagery—the thought of his father manhandling anyone else but him as a youth was not something he recalled happening very often. He winced at the sudden influx of memories of the arguments he and his father had when he was a teenager, some of them turning violent. How horrible that time was. He quickly pushed the thoughts aside, remembering that right now, he was healing—not going back to the burn.

“Your mama didn’t take no shit, either. She gave me some money one time though
, I think.” He tapped his temple as he deliberated. “I really needed it. ... Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was her. I had to go to see my homeboy in the hospital but didn’t have any money for the train. She saw me asking some old man for change and gave it to me. I remember being thankful for that. My boy didn’t make it, but I got to see him before he passed. It was Chi-Chi. ’Member Chi Chi, man?”

Saint raced through his memory bank. “Wait, little short guy with like a streak of gray in his hair?”

“Yup,” Bomb laughed, taking a draw from his cigarette. “He was eight years old wit’ a damn skunk stripe in his head. Tough little dude. Got shot at seventeen and died; it’s a fucked up world…”

Saint nodded. The entire conversation was killing his resolve.

“Does she still work at that little grocery store? It’s called something else now though. ” Bomb broke through the uncomfortable silence.

Saint
frowned and shook his head. “Mama? No. She died and someone bought the grocery store after my grandparents passed away.”

“Mea Culpa.”
(My bad.)

Saint
waved him off. “No, it’s cool. You’d have no way of knowing ... It was a long time ago, I was thirteen going on fourteen when my mother passed away.”

“You still look young man
... same exact face. That’s fuckin’ wild, man. It’s like time froze for you. What you into now?”

“I’m a therapist and an author
, actually. I am also a motivational speaker.”

“No shit, man! What type of therapist? I could use some therapy
,” he joked.

“A sex therapist
.” Saint grinned, waiting for Bomb to wipe the filthy floor with his Latin bravado.

“Oh hell, fuck that, man. I don’t need no help in that department. I got these hoes in check!”
He snapped his fingers and laughed. “I can handle mine.”

A flash of Bomb as a fit teenager having sex with his young girlfriend on the mattress right in front of
the little child, in that old, abandoned building flooded Saint’s mind once more. He’d seen that that building was gone as well, when he walked past the spot earlier in the day, and it broke his heart.